


Anemoi

by writteninhaste



Category: Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies)
Genre: F/M, M/M, Mirror Universe
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-04-19
Updated: 2010-06-22
Packaged: 2018-02-14 16:25:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 16,404
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2198679
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/writteninhaste/pseuds/writteninhaste
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The McCoy’s are old Georgia money. They breed their men sharp, and smart and vicious; their women cunning, enticing and full of sin. They stand three steps away from the throne of the Empire – bound by blood and marriage; the twisting heat of the strong south wind.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

The ballroom was a glittering swirl of power, lust and sin. McCoy arched an eyebrow in mild appreciation as one of the Orion slave girls slunk past him – gold sash doing its best to cover the very barest of essentials below her hips. The woman gazed at him appreciatively through her lashes and McCoy turned away disinterested; it was no fun when they were willing to spread their legs so quickly. Besides, Orion blood was a bitch to get out of the sheets.   
  
The music ended and McCoy stepped up towards the dance floor. Guests parted in a silent wave, leaving the way clear for Clayton Treadway and his dance partner. Jocelyn Darnell spun towards McCoy in a flurry of aqua silk and Caribbean-blue eyes. McCoy caught her with a hand possessively against her hips as Clay smirked knowingly at him. The laughter bleed rapidly from McCoy’s eyes, his face slipping into a blank passivity that had made the lesser minions of the Empire piss themselves. Jocelyn’s smile cracked slightly as it sat upon her cheeks; mouth too stiff and too taut for the gesture to look natural. Clayton raised his hands in mocking surrender and sauntered away to where the youngest daughter of the Walker family was hovering by her father’s arm. The man paled dramatically as Clay held out his hand for a dance, but there was little he could do but hand the girl over like a common mare. The child would be ruined by the end of the night – but that was hardly McCoy’s concern. The Treadways stood below the McCoy’s on the rungs of the Empire; what did Leonard care where Clay stuck his prick at the end of the night as long as it was not in one of McCoy’s toys?  
  
Curving Jocelyn’s hand into the crook of his arm, McCoy led her to where his father dangled his mother like bait before a ‘Fleet Admiral, Leonard did not recognise. Jocelyn’s nails bit into the tender skin of his elbow and McCoy suppressed a smile. In public she might pretend that the pissing contests between himself and Treadway frightened her, but all concerned knew Miss Jocelyn Darnell could easily slit either of them balls to chin. McCoy liked that in a woman. Jocelyn had sparred with him every step of the way. She knew her worth; knew her family’s standing in the Empire in relation to the McCoys; knew how much she could deny him for all she would never concede without a fight. She kept things interesting. Leonard was sure they would last a good ten – maybe twenty – years before he killed her. Hell, maybe he would do what his father had done with his mother, and keep the woman around simply because she kept trying to poison him at regular intervals.   
  
They reached the group just as the Admiral finished telling some anecdote that had lit a hellish fire in his companion’s eyes. David McCoy’s lips twitched in what most would think to be a hint of mild disdain but which Leonard knew to be a sign of bloodlust and anticipation. His mother looked as though she was contemplating how easy it would be to gut a man without getting blood upon her dress. Their gaze shifted to welcome Leonard, and McCoy ducked his head slightly in response. Honour thy father and mother was a lesson quickly learnt in the McCoy household; those who forgot rarely lived past their sixth birthday. As she caught sight of Jocelyn, Elizabeth McCoy’s lip curled ever so slightly; Leonard felt his escort bristle in response. Good thing neither woman was stupid enough to try and kill the other. The Admiral turned, and McCoy performed the introductions, positioning Jocelyn between himself and his father. He knew the message would not be lost: look at the power base we have assembled – the eldest daughter of the Chambliss family married to the McCoy patriarch; the most promising of all the Darnell sisters, the chosen of the McCoy heir; look at the families we can reach through them – the Sampsons, the MaConarchys, the Vangards, the Mills. We are the pillars of your Empire, we have the ear of your Emperor; don’t forget it.   
  
The music from the orchestra swelled again, and McCoy led Jocelyn onto the dance floor. He had made his point to the Admiral; time to make it to everyone else.  
  


* * *

  
  
Jim smothered a yawn as yet another prisoner was brought before the Court. None of the punishments were particularly inventive today – he was beginning to wonder why the Empress had demanded his presence. It wasn’t as though he could fuck her with the whole court watching and he sure as hell wasn’t wanted by the Emperor; the old man hadn’t been able to get it up in years – for all that he enjoyed watching nubile young men bang his wife.   
  
The prisoner died with a bloody torrent and a scream, having somehow managed to bite off his own tongue despite the gag. Pity. Jim shifted his position in the shadows as one of the royal children ran past him in order to play in the congealing blood pool. The blood was candy-red and very striking against the pure cream of the child’s gown. The girl slapped artlessly at the liquid; chortling with fiendish glee as it spattered thick and tepid against her face. A row of sharp little teeth were visible behind her thin, pink lips when she smiled.   
  
Cooing, the Empress beckoned the child back towards her feet where the other youngsters sat, whilst the Emperor motioned one of the slaves to begin clearing up the blood. The girl flounced and pouted, but did as she was told, sitting on the dais steps and licking the blood from her fingers in sullen acquiescence. Jim smiled. He’d lay good money against which child would be standing next in line for the throne. Hell, after that little display the Empress might just kill off her myriad of elder children to make way for her. Or not – after all, the child would be stronger for living through a series of assassination attempts.   
  
The main doors to the audience chamber opened and Jim shifted his attention back to the Court. The blood had been cleared away and rows of Imperial men and women were turning to get a better look at the new entrant. Most who came before the Court used the lesser doors – the ones of rich, inlaid, Farrengi wood; polished to a liquid shine. Only one of the four Great Families would be allowed to use the vaulted, beaten-gold doors that served as the main entryway. This was going to be interesting.   
  
The man cleared the shadows that crowded the door; parted the waves of spectators like Poseidon controlling the sea. He stepped beneath the crystal dome of the arching ceiling, light spilling golden and white and broken across his face and Jim realised at once why his presence was demanded here today. The man was tall, broad across the shoulders and lean at the waist. His skin was tan, hair dark and eyes clear. His face was smooth, ruthless and snarling – and that, more than the insignia he wore upon his breast, marked him as one of the McCoy’s. The man raised a hand, pressing it against forehead, lips and heart in a gesture of respect. Jim’s breath hitched in his throat when he got a glimpse of those strong, elegant fingers. If this was who he thought it was, those hands were born to hold a multitude of blades.   
  
“Leonard.” The Emperor intoned, and Jim mentally crowed at having his guess proven correct. “You asked for this audience on very short notice. I trust you have something valuable to say.”   
  
McCoy bowed – a foreshortened, jerky movement that looked as thought it cost him. “Excellency, I seek permission to wed.” Jim grinned as McCoy’s voice grated from his throat. It looked as though it physically pained him to use the honorific; though from the way his gaze swept appreciatively over the Empress he wouldn’t have objected so much saying it to  _her_.  
  
Jim watched as the Emperor sat back against his throne. It was clear he was weighing his options. On the one hand he could deny McCoy the right, thrust a puppet bride at him and hope to control the McCoy powerbase that way. Of course, McCoy might just kill the woman and marry whoever it was he wanted to marry anyway and then the Emperor would be left having to discipline the heir to one of the most powerful families in the Empire. It might work. The McCoy’s might offer their only child to the mercy of the Court, but Jim doubted it. More likely they would buy his penance and corrode the Emperor’s support as they did so.   
  
On the other hand, the Emperor could give McCoy permission and let the family add yet another wealthy and strategic connection to their network. Jim smirked; lose-lose really. The Empress lifted her youngest son onto her lap and began explaining the use of one of her stilettos to him in hushed tones.   
  
The silence stretched across the court, until at last the Emperor waved a magnanimous hand. “Very well, you may marry the Darnell woman, with Our blessing.”   
  
Jim seethed.  _Darnell_. There was only one available Darnell woman of marriageable age – unless McCoy had proclivities no-one knew about – and Jim would be damned if she was good enough to be the McCoy heir’s wife. He’d met Jocelyn during her time at Court – backstabbing, soul-sucking vacuous bitch. She was vicious, malevolent – no doubt appeared on the surface to be ruthless enough for the McCoy clan – but her’s was a single minded wickedness. It lacked wit, or art, or subtlety. McCoy would tire of her within the year. And she would most likely kill him when his boredom began to show. Jocelyn hated to be slighted.   
  
Jim snarled and sunk against the marble wall, nursing his resentment. He did not know McCoy well. Hell, he did not know the man at all. But Jim could taste his savagery upon his tongue. McCoy was an artist – a painter. Jim had heard tales of the modest surgery in the South; the humble torture chamber run by the McCoy clan that doubled as an infirmary when there was actual need. Jim had seen the hide of the man who had tried to touch McCoy’s young cousin against her will. It was poetry penned in blood upon the skin. There was a delicacy to the incisions; an elegant caress, that read more like a lover’s touch than anything else. Watching now, as McCoy ran his thumb across his nails, Jim ached to watch the man at work. It would be like watching Caravaggio or Bernini; what he would not give to learn at DiVinci’s knee.  
  
McCoy’s eyes slid sideways, as though he felt Jim’s gaze, and Jim licked his lips in greed. The Emperor was talking again – some great, prolific speech about rewarding loyalty in the Empire. But Jim paid little attention. McCoy was already aware of him, in some peripheral way – it would not be hard to impose upon him more forcefully.   
  
The Emperor seemed to be wrapping up his speech. “We will send a gift once We are informed of the specific date.”  
  
Even from this distance, Jim could see McCoy grit his teeth as he offered another bow. The gift would no doubt be a promotion or manoeuvring of some sort that raised McCoy family standing whilst inviting them to pour money into the Imperial coffers. From the look on McCoy’s face he knew it, too. “You are too kind, Excellency. Your generosity will be remembered by my family; a debt which will not go unpaid.”  
  
The Emperor smiled with thin superiority, but Jim noticed that the Empress, like himself, had looked up sharply at the peculiar phrasing of the response. Most people would have grovelled or promised specific and luxurious displays of gratitude. But though the words had seemed heavy and foreign – unnatural on McCoy’s southern-honey tongue – they had sounded more like a threat than thanks.   
Staring after the man as he marched from the audience hall, Jim wondered – not for the first time – if the McCoy’s were getting ready to shrug off the position of Third Family, and claim for themselves a more prominent seat amidst the Empire.  
  


* * *

  
  
Jocelyn shrieked as McCoy yanked back the curtain of the old fashioned water shower they kept in the guest suits. He laughed. “Problem darlin’?”  
  
Jocelyn scowled, slamming the knife she’d grabbed off the ledge back down onto the tiles. “Dammit Leonard, you scared me half to death.”   
  
“Only half?” McCoy muttered. “I must be losing my touch.”   
  
Jocelyn huffed, picking up the soap and working it into a lather across her neck and chest. She could hear the soft thump of McCoy’s clothing as it hit the floor; was prepared for the sudden change in air pressure as he climbed in behind her.   
  
Her breath hitched involuntarily as McCoy’s hands skimmed from her ribs to her waist. His fingers ran teasingly across her skin, gliding through the water and leaving fire in their wake. McCoy might be an under-achieving inbred, who wouldn’t know political ambition if it bit him on the arse but at least the surgeon’s training was good for something – he had damn talented hands. The soap fell to the shower floor with a thud as McCoy snaked those long talented fingers between her legs. His tongue flicked teasing strips behind her ear, teeth snagging occasionally at the cartilage even as he worked his fingers deeper. She gasped and bucked as he flicked a nail viciously against her clit, cursing him as his deep laughter rumbled from his chest. The one thing she hated most about Leonard H. McCoy was his ability to sound so very self-satisfied during sex. She could not help but twitch and moan as he brought her off, entering her in one smooth thrust even before the aftershocks of her orgasm had subsided. He kept her pinned against the wall, breasts pressed uncomfortably hard against tiles which were surprisingly cool. The moisture danced across her flesh, even as McCoy’s balls slapped hot against her thighs. His fingers worked another orgasm from her, for all that she fought to deny him. He came with a shout, and four quick, staccato jerks of his hips, before slipping from her sated and spent; the water washing all evidence of their recreation down the drain.   
  
Jocelyn stumbled from the shower not long after, not stupid enough to demand her knife accompany her. Wetting a flannel at the sink, she swiped the damp cloth between her legs before snagging a dressing gown from the back of the door. She could hear McCoy humming some soft, old tune beneath his breath and sneered. Wrapping the belt around her waist, Jocelyn stalked into the guest room she had been given, determined to be gone by the time McCoy was done with his shower.  
  


* * *

  
  
It was not difficult for Jim to obtain an ‘invitation’ to join one of the Court families at their country home for the summer. He was James T. Kirk – beloved son of the Empire. Once he made his interest known, there was no shortage of households eager to be seen hosting the current favourite of the Emperor.   
  
The Abbott house was one of the old plantation homes nestled in acres of farm and woodland. It made security a bitch but the aesthetic was quite pleasing. There were no women in the Abbott house worth speaking of – a few maids, the toys of Abbott’s middle son – but his wife was years gone in her grave and there were no daughter’s to cause concern. A lesser man may have feared also for his sons, but Jim had seen Bill Abbott train his children – they could hold their own. Besides, Jim rarely fucked the same person twice.  
  
Jim learnt his way around Atlanta quick enough. He made note of a few bars where his fights might go unnoticed and unpunished, but focused most of his attention of tracking Jocelyn Darnell. The woman seemed primarily concerned with forging her connections through the social events and political machinations of the city. McCoy occasionally was with her, but for the most part they stayed separated unless it was an evening gathering. The eldest of the Abbott sons had some interesting speculation as to Miss Darnell’s involvement with young Mr Treadway, but in the same breath doubted that either one of them was stupid enough to piss off McCoy. Yet, both seemed to regard the man with condescension – as though he were the lesser threat, not them. Jocelyn in particular seemed to miss the subtle sadism that Jim could feel ooze from McCoy’s very veins. Treadway was just stupid.   
  
The rendezvous, when Jim discovered them, were almost insulting in their blatancy. Nights when McCoy played doctor or inquisitor; afternoons when both Darnell and Treadway were  _supposed_  to be socialising at the club; mornings when Jocelyn pretended she was planning for the wedding. Still, perhaps Jim gave them too little credit. They had fooled the McCoy’s after all and that was no mean feat.   
  


* * *

  
  
The note was bland, and seemingly innocuous. McCoy ran a tricorder over the damn thing to check for poisons anyway. Snatching the envelope from where it was pinned to the door, McCoy broke the seal with a flick of his thumb. The handwriting was smooth and elegant – a thick black script rendered in ink. There were a grand total of five words and a picture:  _ **Thought this might interest you.**_  McCoy ran his finger over the letters, tracing the paper down towards the embossed emblem pressed into the bottom of the page. Holding it up to the stars, McCoy could just about make out the image in the moonlight: Bernini’s Tiber, wrapped in a snake, holding what appeared to be a Christian cross. A signature – clearly – but one McCoy did not recognise.  
  
The picture was a holo snapshot. Plain, unobtrusive, save for the fact that it show Jocelyn in all her naked glory – spread out across cool, green sheets; clearly expecting company. McCoy’s hand convulsed in to a fist. Flipping the holo over, McCoy read the address printed their in the same neat hand and felt his blood begin to boil.  _Traitorous bitch_.   
  


* * *

  
  
McCoy’s rage was a beautiful thing to behold. Jim watched from his perch across the street, as McCoy laid the Treadway family to waste. One of the maids, in a show of loyalty, tried to hamstring the doctor as he jabbed a hypospray into her master’s neck. Jim thought McCoy might just spare her for her audacity but was not surprised when the maid’s blood flew in a crimson arc from her carotid artery.   
  
Watching one man reap such damage was incredible. Jim felt a want so violent it was almost alien; the kind of childish gluttony that demanded _more_ , _want_ , _now_ , _mine_. Jim licked his lips and tried not to come in his pants as McCoy tore into the bedroom cloistering Darnell and Treadway. The woman had the nerve to beg, to try and plead – Jim was almost sorry McCoy killed her so quickly. Treadway tried to leap out the window after that. McCoy hauled him back and stuck a hypo in his neck. Jim watched until the other McCoy men turned up and loaded all the bodies into a truck.  
  


* * *

  
  
Another glittering ballroom, another society display – but this one had the undercurrent of morbid fear that McCoy enjoyed. His parents were holding court at the far side of the room, waiting patiently as each of their guests came to pay their respects. As if anyone would dare do otherwise.  
  
“You know,” a voice said at his elbow, “when I watched you at the house I thought you’d killed them all then and there. But they’re actually still alive up there, aren’t they?”  
  
McCoy turned to look at the young man, boy really, standing beside him. Blonde, fair, blue eyed – not in the least bit interesting; wearing the Imperial colours – which was. The substance of what his companion had said sank in. “You were there?”  
  
“Oh yes, I was watching from a tree on the opposite side of the road.” The blonde tipped his head back to get a better look at the night’s entertainment. “Nearly came right then and there. But this is even better.”  
  
McCoy barked a laugh, and followed the kid’s gaze up to where his handiwork hung from the ceiling like bloody chandeliers. The Treadway family (plus one Jocelyn Darnell) swung like broken marionettes – naked and oozing blood from an artful dance of wounds that gaped right down to the bone; a clear warning to those who might be tempted to cheat the McCoy family. The blonde sighed in appreciation and lowered his gaze.   
  
“I don’t suppose you’d be up to fucking me whilst one of them watches?”   
  
McCoy snorted, forcing himself not to laugh too loud, as he turned his attention to the boy. “What are you fifteen?”  
  
The boy pouted, sullen. “Yeah, so?”  
  
“So, I have no interest in children. It’s like fucking a doll – breaks too damn easy.”  
  
The kid bristled, hackles rising. “I’m not a child.”   
  
McCoy smirked, resisting the urge to add insult to injury by patting the boy on the head. He was wearing Imperial colours – McCoy didn’t want to lose a hand to a carefully hidden knife. “Call me when you know how to use what you keep in your pants.”  
  
A slender, calloused hand closed around his wrist. The boy looked up at him with fierce and angry eyes. “My name is James. T. Kirk.” He said, slowly – as though McCoy might need help in understanding the significance.  
  
“James Kirk.” McCoy agreed. “I’ll remember that. Now run along kid, it’s past your bedtime.” Not bothering to wait for a response, McCoy headed off into the crowd. He could feel Kirk’s gaze pressing down on him, until the crush of people hid the kid from view.   
  
James T. Kirk was the current Court favourite – a name to watch in the Empire, if rumour held true.   
  
McCoy saw no reason to watch a spoilt and sullen child.


	2. Chapter 2

Kirk snarled and bucked, knives sliding into the thick, meaty flesh of his attacker’s abdomen. He heard a pained grunt and a thud as something heavy and unmoving hit the floor. Twisting, Kirk rolled free, pressing his back against the wall as his remaining two attackers closed in on him. If they had possessed any sense they would have run away. Four of their companions lay dead or dying in the corridor; Kirk wasted no time in adding two more bodies to the number.  
  
The click of a phaser was all the warning Kirk received, before he felt it pressed neatly into the small of his back. Kirk suppressed a snarl and the urge to ram his elbow into the gut of his captor. He mentally started cataloguing injuries that would have impaired his hearing; no-one should ever have been able to get the drop on him.  
  
“Come with me, Kirk.” The voice was rough, not smooth; a far cry from the pet Vulcan assassins that roamed the halls. The phaser pressed harder against his spine, and Kirk began walking. It was his left ear that was compromised. Kirk could feel it in the way his footsteps felt duller on that side – the crack of his boots muted and pliant. Whoever was standing behind him pushed; knocking Kirk to his knees as they entered the vast hall that housed the Agony Booths.   
  
Kirk had always admired the artistry with which this hall had been arranged; a tantalising portrait of enduring pain. It was like a museum or menagerie; little sofas, piles of cushions – all delicately arranged so one could sit and watch and enjoy the torment of acquaintances and strangers. Those assembled in the hall fell silent as Kirk was pushed and shunted towards one of the booths. Kept upon his knees, Kirk gritted his teeth and placed his hands firmly in front of him. The marble of the floor was cool, slightly pitted from where so many boots had walked upon it.   
  
The thug with the phaser hauled Kirk to his feet, throwing him into the glass case with little ceremony. Jim braced his hands against the walls, sunk into the white, static pool deep in his mind; waited for the agony to begin. Time was when he would have spilled from these booths laughing; enchanted by the knowledge that no matter how many times the punished him, they could never  _fucking_  touch him – he was the Emperor’s favourite. Now, Kirk gripped his teeth between his lips and watched as the form of Emperor Archer moved in to view. He was no one’s favourite these days, and Kirk knew without a doubt that Archer would strip him of every alliance he possessed before sending him packing into the ‘Fleet. He would be nameless, faceless, and anyone’s meat. The Booth ignited, and Kirk chewed his lip to bleeding against scream after scream. Forcing his eyes open, Kirk watched Archer’s face. Kirk would prove himself a gifted Officer; prove himself useful to the Empire. Archer would learn that underestimating Kirk was a mistake.   
  


* * *

  
  
In disgust, McCoy shook the excess of blood from his wrist. Such a waste; crude, artless cuts born of necessity – no time for skill or intricacy. With a snort, he took in the blood pooling upon the floor and the lifeless body of the Commander who thought he could force McCoy onto his knees. Pushing himself upright with nothing more than a flex of his thighs, McCoy returned the blade-scalpel to its holster on his thigh. It was awkward to reach the sheath through the hole in his pocket with the material of his trousers so tacky and wet but McCoy managed. Crouching down, the doctor rolled the Commander onto his stomach, ignoring the red and ruined mass that had once been the man’s groin. Lifting the uniform jacket, McCoy contemplated the smooth expanse of skin. It had potential. But he hardly wanted to be carrying a dead man all the way across Campus to ‘Fleet Medical. Maybe he could just take the torso with him?  
  
The click of booted heals across the floor drew McCoy’s attention. The area was dim, but not so shadowed that McCoy could miss the flashing gold of the man’s vest, or the silver of the knife he kept pinned at his hip.   
  
“Captain.” McCoy acknowledged, pushing the Commander back over so Pike could see his front.  
  
“Doctor. I could have you thrown in the Booth because of this.”  
  
“You could have me thrown into the Booth because I breathe.” McCoy drawled. “You telling me a man’s not allowed to defend himself against a rapist?”  
  
Pike laughed. “You’re hardly a blushing virgin on her wedding night, McCoy. You act as though you’ve virtue to defend. What would you say if I were to tell you to suck me off – right here and now.”  
  
“I’d tell you to go to hell.” McCoy’s voice was calm, disinterested; he might have simply been discussing the weather.  
  
Pike smiled; a predator’s quick flash of teeth. “I could make it an order. I could drag you before the entire Academy. Make them see you as nothing more than a whore. The man, who was cuckolded by a woman he should have controlled, left tied to a stage where anyone can have him.”  
  
McCoy arched a sardonic eyebrow. “And how long do you think you’d live, after you’d done that Captain?”  
  
“Your family doesn’t have enough influence left to convince someone to kill me. They value their lives more than they value your favour.”  
  
McCoy snorted, settling his weight against the wall, lifting one hand in acknowledgement of Pike’s point. “Ridiculous, but let’s say that’s true. That doesn’t mean that the Emperor wouldn’t kill you.”  
  
Pike stiffened. “Archer? Why?”  
  
McCoy smiled and refused to answer. Let Pike sweat over that for a while. The Captain paused to contemplate the bloody mess that lay across the hallway.   
  
“Effective. Nowhere near as elegant as some of what I’ve seen lately – that Russian kid for example – but it obviously got the job done.”  
  
“I didn’t have time to be artistic.”  
  
Pike smiled condescendingly. “And therein lies the difference between a journeyman and a master. I trust you’ll get this cleaned up, Doctor? Can’t have blood fouling up the hallways.”  
  
McCoy sneered and ground his teeth. Waiting until Pike had rounded the corner, the doctor aimed a vicious kick at the cadaver’s ribs. The bone broke with a dull crunch but there was no other sound. McCoy swore a blue streak. They just weren’t fun when they were dead.  
  


* * *

  
  
Jim dragged his body up the back staircase that led to the Cadet dormitories. The carpet burned against his forearms and his shins; the metal edge of each step cut into his skin. Naked – bleeding and bruised – Kirk resolutely kept moving. Every shift of his lower body was agony. He could feel blood and thicker things oozing across his buttocks and his thighs; his jaw was at least partially dislocated and his pelvis was most likely fractured. The corners of his vision were fuzzy and grey. Shuddering, Kirk hauled himself the last three steps and collapsed, unable to summon the energy even to pant.   
  
The landing was bright and stark; lights at seventy-five percent regardless of the lateness of the hour. Somehow, Kirk rolled, shuffled and crawled his way to his room. The Academy had stopped giving him roommates after the first four had wound up dead and the empty spare bed was a blissful respite. Kirk dragged himself onto the sheets, legs trembling violently and stomach spasming against the pain. His arms gave out and he lay there, heedless of the mess that was beginning to stain bedding. His mind flashed to Finnegan’s laughing face; the laughing faces of his friends as they zipped their flies and left Jim shackled to the floor of the east sim room. As darkness swept across his vision, Kirk entertained himself with thoughts of what he’d do to Finnegan’s laughing face.  
  


* * *

  
  
Pike smiled in pride and triumph as Kirk’s silver tongue wound its way across the training room floor. It was a simple exercise: negotiate with the computer for the right to lead a campaign against a star system. The computer was programmed to respond much like a specific member of the admiralty. If the Cadet leading the exercise succeeded in guessing the name of the Admiral in question, and addressed the computer as such, then they were rewarded. Should the cadet guess incorrectly, he or she received an hour in the Agony Booth, whilst their crew received the full duration – it was a nice, easy way to build resentment amongst classmates and weed out those too stupid to survive an assassination attempt. Refusing to guess was not an option. Most cadets failed. Of course, this was because the Instructors cheated and the computer was actually programmed to respond as though it were two or more of the Admiralty working together. No one had figured that out yet. Kirk had just named Nogura, Barnett and Komack – even going so far as to name them in the order in which they spoke and to reference specifics of what they had said. Pike was nearly wetting himself with glee. No one else looked half so pleased. With a snarl, Komack shut off the simulation, leaving a very self-satisfied Jim Kirk smirking up at the observation platform. Pike leant in to activate the intercom.  
  
“Congratulations Kirk. Now get that pretty arse of yours up here so we can discuss your reward.”   
  
Kirk’s jaw twitched incrementally at that, but he rose smoothly from the chair all the same. His command crew he dismissed with a wave of his hand – letting the other Cadets file out in front of him. More than one of them smirked and glanced up at where Pike was standing. Let them think Kirk’s reward was to be nothing more than an Admiral’s fuck toy. It wasn’t as though people were ignorant of his position as Pike’s pet.   
  
Kirk strode into the observation room with cool authority, though Pike noted with satisfaction that he stationed himself out of reaching distance and with his back to the wall.   
  
“Admiral Komack; Admiral Jesslaw; Captain Pike.”   
  
Jesslaw picked at her nails with a boot knife; her gaze roamed disinterestedly over Kirk before returning to the task at hand. Komack merely scowled at Kirk in acknowledgement. Pike grinned and sauntered over to his protégé, clapping him on the shoulder. He was proud; he wasn’t afraid to show it.  
  
“Cadet you successfully completed the simulation. That means you get to ask for one privilege from the Admiralty – within reason of course.”  
  
“And the boundaries of this reason, Sir?” Kirk asked and Pike nearly laughed at the suspicion in Kirk’s voice.  
  
“Just don’t ask for permission to kill anyone in charge all right?”  
  
Kirk nodded and faced Komack. “In that case, Admiral, I would like to request full access to the Kobyashi Maru programme.” Jesslaw stopped picking her nails and looked up in interest. Komack blustered and turned red in the face, as indignant as if Kirk had asked him to strip naked and open wide.   
  
“Impossible.” He spat.  
  
Jesslaw interjected, hopping neatly off the work station she had been perched on. “Not so.” She fixed Komack with a withering stare and arched a single, silver eyebrow; the other was held in place by a purple, mottled scar that had never fully healed. “Cadet Kirk is within his rights to ask. The privilege is granted.” Komack looked murderous but there was little he could say in response. Pike waited until Jesslaw had swept from the room. He might let the old besom fuck him a few more times if she was willing to reward his good behaviour like that. Or maybe he’d offer her Kirk; she was known to like young men tied down and in pain. And Kirk would enjoy her well enough.  
  
Kirk saluted Komack and Pike respectfully then made his retreat. Komack was still fuming, but it was an impotent sort of rage. Jesslaw had given Kirk her favour; Kirk was Pike’s pet so it was as good as saying she’d given  _Pike_ her favour. Komack could not touch either of them. Stupid, under-connected nobody; how he had ever made Admiral was anyone’s guess.  
  


* * *

  
  
McCoy stroked his fingers idly over the laser scalpel he held, as he contemplated his patient. The man needed his appendix removed but there was nothing to say the procedure had to be painless. Running the pads of his fingers over the man’s abdomen, McCoy considered his options. He had limited time before the appendix ruptured, but a few minutes would make little difference. Turning to his nurse, McCoy smiled behind his mask.   
  
“Laparotomy, I think – I’m old fashioned.” The nurse in question smiled appreciatively and pricked a pin into the patient’s side to ensure the local anaesthetic had taken affect. McCoy admired that he had not even had to ask – she’d spurned the use of general anaesthetic straight away. Moving so that he could look down into the man’s face, McCoy resettled the monitor positioned above the bed.  
  
“Keep your eyes on the screen.” McCoy told him. “I want you to see what we’re doing.” The man’s eyes were wide and panicked but the vocal suppressant McCoy had injected him with prevented him from screaming. It was a pity, but Dr. Boyce had really been most insistent. Things would be different, if McCoy ever ran ‘Fleet Medical.  
  
The surgery was quick and efficient. McCoy removed the appendix with ease and there were no signs of secondary infection. He pondered, for a moment, exploring the abdominal cavity just for the hell of it but M’Benga had offered to let him observe his latest experiment and McCoy was looking forward to the event. He had money laid down with Puri over how long it would take M’Benga to elicit an emotional response from his latest subject.   
  
Stripping off his gloves, McCoy threw them into the re-processer. The anaesthetic had begun to wear off towards the end of the operation and the man was already beginning to twitch and jerk with pain upon the table. “You can close up, if you like.” McCoy offered, waving a hand magnanimously towards the patient. His nurse smiled, all teeth, stripping off her mask to show a small, bow mouth painted crimson.   
  
“Thank you, doctor.” McCoy’s appreciation grew when, instead of reaching for the regenerators, the nurse drew a fine needle and silk thread from a box she had placed upon the table.   
  
“I’m old fashioned, too.” She said, making a show of threading the needle where the patient could see.  
  
“Well now, I can see that darlin’.” McCoy drawled, moving back around towards the table. “I hope you don’t mind if I watch?”  
  
“Not at all.” The nurse replied, sparing McCoy a sultry glance over her shoulder. The doctor leered and positioned himself a mere breath away from her hips. M’Benga and his Vulcan guinea pig could wait.  
  


* * *

  
  
Jim panted and writhed, chuckling as he braced a knee against Pike’s hip and _pushed_ , rolling until he was nestled between the Captain’s thighs. Pike laughed; a full-blown, delighted sound as he reared up and pushed Jim back, tumbling them from the bed in a tangle of sheets and feet and limbs. Jim gasped as his breath was knocked from his lungs before he twisted and wrapped a hand firmly around Pike’s erection. The other man groaned and bucked, eyes rolling up into his head even as he fought to keep them on Jim’s face.   
  
Jim smiled, teeth flashing in the gloom before he wriggled his way down Pike’s body and took the Captain’s cock between his lips. Pike’s breath stuttered and whined, his hips twitching towards Jim’s face before the younger man managed to brace a forearm across his mentor’s abdomen. It was freeing – this lust and sex filled partnership that hung on a single, liberating condition: Pike kept Jim alive until his Captaincy, Jim kept Pike alive into the Admiralty. Jim was brilliant and gifted. Pike knew his position as the favourite of the ‘Fleet would be quickly spent once Jim climbed the ranks. But the Empire needed him, so Pike stayed his hand. Besides, Jim was the type to reward belief in his abilities – a certain type of loyalty.   
  
As if sensing Pike’s distraction, Jim flicked his tongue beneath the crown of Pike’s dick; suckling, as if the flesh was a particularly tasty treat. Pike threaded his hand into Jim’s sun-kissed hair. He did not need to push; Jim took him deeper without complaint. The boy gained a certain sense of satisfaction in knowing he could reduce Pike to orgasm. Pike could feel his climax building, a tight coil in the muscles of his thighs; a burning in his belly. Pushing Jim away, Pike rolled – slipping two fingers into Jim’s heat – still slippery and open from before they’d been distracted. Giving a few cursory tugs of his fingers, Pike lined himself up and thrust in deep. Jim keened and arched like a cat; rubbing his erection against Pike’s skin. Pike took the hint. He grabbed Jim’s cock, pulling at a counter-pace – slow and torturous even as he thrust hot and quick. Jim glared in protest, but didn’t object when Pike began to pummel his prostate. Pike could  _see_  the debate raging in Jim’s brain: lie there, take it and reach orgasm quickly – like his body was demanding; or try to push Pike off, flip them, ride Pike at his own pace and run the risk of his body cooling off and orgasm taking longer to achieve. Pike saw the decision in Jim’s eyes before he moved and decided to go with it. He began to roll before Jim started to push – letting Jim settle in the dominant position on top, but denying the younger man the control he wanted. Jim rode his way to climax viciously; fisting his own cock without mercy. He came with a curse and a muffled cry; clenching almost painfully tight around Pike. The Captain swore and raked his nails down Jim’s thigh in admonishment as his orgasm followed too soon for his liking.   
  
Jim grinned lazy and satisfied – as sated as the Cheshire cat and just as shit-eating. Pike pushed him off with a grunt, wincing as his tender dick slipped from Jim’s heat, to slap pathetically against his own thigh. Jim flopped down beside him, wriggling until he had found a comfortable place amongst the sheets.   
  
“My bed is right there.” Pike pointed out; one hand waving uselessly in the direction he meant to indicate. Jim hummed in agreement but made no effort to move. Sighing, Pike hauled himself upright, wrapping one hand around Jim’s bicep and dragging the younger man with him. Jim flopped gracelessly to the bed, leaving Pike to yank the sheets off the floor and back up onto the mattress. Jim watched him with sleepy, sex-bright eyes; one hand tucked behind his head. It put him in reach of the knife Pike let him keep there. Lying down, Pike stared calmly at the ceiling, waiting for Jim’s senses to return to him. That was another reason for these sessions: teach the kid not to succumb to the drag of sleep after sex. Practice was all that was necessary – Jim would learn easily enough to keep his wits about him until he’d cleared the room; sex was when you were most vulnerable.   
  
“I thought you would have asked the Admiralty for immunity.” Pike commented, once he judged Jim was sensible enough to listen.  
  
“Immunity from what?” Jim asked.  
  
“From killing whoever it was who raped you.” Pike felt Jim still beside him, before his breathing resumed – forcibly even.   
  
“Who told you?” Good. He didn’t deny it – wasn’t acting beaten or ashamed; clinical was a good response.   
  
“I keep a tab on your medical records. It helps to know every time they add a new allergy to the list. I saw what injuries were listed after you took yourself to the clinic.” Jim breathed quietly beside him, and Pike – despite turning his head to look – could not divine what he was thinking. “They challenged me, you know.” Pike continued. “Everyone in the ‘Fleet knows your mine – by touching you, they were testing me. If you tell me who it was I can make an example of them.”  
  
“It’ll mean more if the message comes from me.”  
  
Pike sighed. “You honestly think that?”  
  
“People need to know I have what it takes to be captain one day.”  
  
Pike could see the logic in that but he also knew that in letting Jim have his way there were those who would see Pike as weak for not protecting what was his. The Court had ruined Jim in many ways. Being the Imperial favourite had sheltered him – left him as vicious and undisciplined as a child. He had never had to grow; to learn. Pike had seen the pain he reaped on others – it was nothing more than an angry toddler smashing all his toys.   
  
“Fine.” He conceded. “Have it your way. But when they catch you, don’t look to me. I won’t protect you from their friends.” He felt Jim nod beside him; noted the younger man did not protest the use of ‘when’ instead of ‘if’.  
  


* * *

  
  
It was the scream that woke McCoy; high, shrill, female; quickly stifled. Curious, McCoy opened the window and stuck his head out. There was a crowd gathering in the quod below; some sort of spectacle had been arranged but McCoy couldn’t see the detail from his window. Grumbling, McCoy dragged his uniform from off a chair. His medkit he tied around his waist; a couple of weapons went into their respective sheaths. He was glad medics were valued enough that few people wanted to kill them. He hated carrying around a small militia’s worth of weaponry.   
  
The crowd had swelled significantly by the time McCoy made it out of the Officer’s quarters. People were whispering with a mixture of trepidation and excitement. Certain names were being repeated over and over but McCoy paid little attention. He pushed his way into the crowd and cadets moved out of his way quickly enough once they saw his face and the medical blue he wore. Emerging at the front, McCoy took a moment to admire the unbridled savagery of the scene before him. There was something raw and vibrant in the pain inflicted here. This was more than personal. This was almost animal. McCoy circled the five captive individuals. He could feel his pulse climbing; such primal anger was almost arousing. There was very little elegance to the display, it was true, but really the brutality was almost breathtaking. McCoy came round full circle, ignoring the cadets who were watching him with trepidation. A selection of instructors and command personnel had pushed their way to the fore, but McCoy was not about to willingly let anyone taint his enjoyment. The last time he’d seen anything like this had been back in the old Court: a single man – some low level security brute – had been exhibited in a similar manner just outside the main doors. But here, the spike did not just pierce the rectum, but carried on the whole way through. It would have required strength, and a hell of a lot of determination, to force a body down onto the pole so that the shaft penetrated all the way through the soft tissue and up into the throat. The binding of the hands and feet was a work of genius. If this had been done slowly – whilst the subject was still alive – the binding would have provided just enough leverage for a person to try and push off the spike – to escape the pain – but not enough for them to sustain it; the subject would have ended up pushing their own body onto the torture device.   
  
It was strange though. The lead body was slightly different from the rest: the head was not pushed down onto the spike – but rested, just on the point. The cheeks bulged as though the mouth had been filled with something peri-mortem. Taking the chin in hand, McCoy ran a finger behind the lips. The teeth were locked with rigor mortis but a good, hard yank should undo it. McCoy spared a moment to see if any of the command staff would protest to his fondling the body before bracing both hands upon the head and pushing downwards. The jaw broke with a satisfying crack; the soft tissue of the lower pallet splitting like rotten fruit around the pole. Working his fingers into the mouth, McCoy withdrew a lump of bone and sinew. Letting the object rest in his palm, McCoy realised it was a finger. Reaching back in, McCoy withdrew four more. Leaning over the body’s shoulder, McCoy glanced down. All the fingers on the right hand were missing. He should have seen that the first time around. Rolling the collected appendages between his fingers McCoy surveyed the bodies. He would like to meet whoever had done this; teach him, or her, a more artistic way to send a message. Fingers in the mouth was a little too cliché.  
  


* * *

  
  
Jim was prepared when they came for him. He knew from the moment he took his revenge that this would not go unpunished. Finnegan and his group had friends – Komack for one – and they would have come looking for Jim whether he had bothered to hide the evidence or not. Instead, he sauntered down from the steps of the lecture theatre when Komack and his guards stormed in. He smiled in complacent satisfaction as Komack pressed an Agoniser to his chest, the pain knocking him to his knees. He spared a wink for Uhura who was watching him with something close to respect, before Komack backhanded him across the face. The Admiral’s guards hauled Kirk to his feet, dragging him from the room. Komack snarled a warning at the room of large before marching out after them, delivering a swift kick to the back of Kirk’s needs when he reached the party. Kirk’s leg buckled, but he remained upright.  
  
The march through the corridors of the Academy took far longer than was necessary. Komack made a point of parading Kirk past a myriad of classrooms – a warning to other cadets. The auditorium, when they reached it was empty save for a handful of instructors and a flash of blue tunic signalling the presence of the requisite medic. Jim was surprised Komack had bothered. Then he saw Pike’s face in the crowd and realised his mentor was probably the one to bring a doctor. Scanning the room, Kirk took note of ranks and names: six Admirals, including Jesslaw, four Captains excluding Pike, a Vulcan female Kirk remembered seeing leave Archer’s quarters at court, and a handful of other ‘Fleet personnel. Jim recognised Commander Rivers and Lt. Commander Brentworth. The others arranged themselves behind those two, clearly split down the middle, marking to which Great Family their allegiances belonged. For all the good it would do them these days. Rivers nodded to someone over Jim’s shoulder and Kirk turned his head to see who the woman had acknowledged. Jim’s gaze locked with McCoy’s and he saw the other man’s eyes widen in recognition before Komack forced his head back around. The Admiral waved a hypo in Kirk’s face, tapping his fingers against its sides like a piano.  
  
“Quinuclidinyl benzilate.” Komack told him, waiting for the recognition to flare in Kirk’s eyes before he pressed the hypo carefully against neck. Jim swallowed. He had never thought of Komack as the type who could feign serenity when he was frighteningly angry. Jim had read him wrong.   
  
Komack gestured and Kirk felt the two guards wrap hands around his biceps. The bruising press of their fingers were as painful as if his bones were being crushed in a vice. Kirk’s nerves sang in agony as he was thrown bodily into the agoniser. Quinuclidinyl benzilate: heightens nerve sensitivity across the body. Jim mentally recited the statistics – how long it would take for the drug to take full affect; reactions he could expect once the agoniser started up; how long he could withstand the pain before he went into cardiac arrest.   
  
The audience shifted so that they all had a good view of the Booth and Jim did his best to brace himself against the pain. When it started, the only thing he could think to do was scream.  
  


* * *

  
  
McCoy felt discontent steal into his chest when he realised what Komack had planned. It did not sit right with him that talent was being punished with torment. Pike’s face was carefully neutral but McCoy could tell the man was not happy. Kirk was his – everyone knew that; just as everyone knew Pike only chose the best. McCoy had heard of Kirk’s remarkable results; the way he breezed through academics even some instructors might struggle with; how he was quick, ruthless, vicious, and with Pike’s patronage on the fast-track to command. It was a failing on McCoy’s part that he had never married the faceless idea of Cadet Kirk to the face of the James T. he had met in his parent’s ballroom six years ago. Still, who could blame him? He had assumed the boy had died with the rest of the Imperial Family when Archer proclaimed himself as Caesar. McCoy remembered watching as the bodies burned in the capital.   
  
Kirk stopped screaming, and McCoy noticed a muscle jump in Pike’s jaw. Ambling over, McCoy bent his head ever so slightly. “I can stop this. You know he’ll be worse than useless if the neurological damage is too extensive. Archer won’t sanction you killing Komack just because he legitimately punished your pet. And even if you hide it behind a wish for advancement, you’re not in a position for promotion, not yet.”  
  
“What do you want?” McCoy smiled. At least Pike wasn’t trying to deny it. Kirk might not be his weak spot, but it was damn close. Though part of that, might have been due to the fact that McCoy had the sense to keep his voice pitched low – too low for anyone else in the room to hear.   
  
“Let me train him. I’m not talking about combat.” He added when Pike opened his mouth to protest. “I’m talking about revenge. He has talent – let me shape it. I get him out of the booth now and he’s mine until he graduates.” McCoy hoped his voice did not give him away. Thinking about the brutality Kirk wrought against Finnegan and his congress had kept him half-hard all day. The though of having Kirk as a pupil; of having the chance to hone and shape that rage into sculptor’s elegance was enough to send adrenaline coursing through his system.  
  
“That’s less than three months away.” Pike answered.  
  
“Time enough.” McCoy said.  
  
“And all you’ll do is teach him?”   
  
McCoy smirked. He knew what Pike was asking and the hell he was going to limit himself like that.   
“Fine.” Pike snapped. “But tonight he’s mine. I don’t want him thinking I’ll pass him round like meat – I lose his loyalty that way.”  
  
“Agreed.” McCoy answered and stepped away.  
  
Casually, he wound his way around the room, stopping to drop words in Rivers and Brentworth’s ears. Brentworth shrugged, disinterested, but Rivers raised an eyebrow before nodding her consent. She had always been a fan of Leonard’s work – even when they were children. Nodding his thanks, McCoy gave the signal to shut the machine off. The guard hesitated for a moment but someone must have made a move behind McCoy because he hastened to obey.  
  
“What are you  _doing_?” Komack demanded, striding toward the control panel. “Turn that thing back on –”  
  
“He’s had enough.” McCoy interjected. “I’m ruling as a doctor. That’s the end of it.”  
  
Komack snarled and made to turn the machine back on anyway, but Rivers moved to stand beside McCoy. A moment later, Brentworth followed. Pike had already liberated Kirk from the machine and was practically carrying him to stand beside the group assembling. Jesslaw’s lips twitched infinitesimally as she joined them. Komack’s face turned purple but he stepped aside. Pike and Jesslaw were just accessories – he no doubt would have killed them rather than be robbed of his revenge – but Komack was not stupid enough to make enemies of three Great Families – not even to avenge his five dead men.   
  


* * *

  
  
In the end it was almost insultingly easy. Jim knocked McCoy to the floor, laid the blade of the knife against his neck and smiled when he felt the doctor stiffen.   
  
“You really need a better security system.” He purred. McCoy jerked and scowled, obviously recognising who was speaking to him.   
  
“What the hell do you want, kid?”  
  
Jim smiled against McCoy’s ear, letting his lips brush delicately against the shell as he spoke. “Pike told me about your little arrangement. Clever that, winning a favour from Archer’s favourite. Might even help the McCoy family climb back into grace.”  
  
“We never fell out of it.”  
  
“Bullshit.” Jim told him. “The Great Families lost their power when Archer took over as Caesar.”  
  
He felt McCoy shift under him. His drawl coming soft and honey-sweet in the half-dark of the room. “Now why would you think that?” Moonlight played across McCoy’s face, casting his eyes in shadow but leaving his mouth and chin silver-lit.   
  
“Control the ‘Fleet, control the Empire.” Jim said. “Terror must be maintained. And the only way to do that is with the Armada.”  
  
Jim started when McCoy began to laugh; great, deep chuckles that spilled from his lips like chocolate. Jim was forced to draw the knife away to keep from cutting him. “Is that what Pike’s been teaching you?” McCoy said at last, once he’d found his breath again. “That the strength of the Empire is tied to the strength of the ‘Fleet.”  
  
“It’s true.” Jim spat.  
  
“As far as it goes.” McCoy countered. “Let me up.”   
  
Jim did so, warily – once he’d patted McCoy down with one hand and stripped him of the scalpel and the knife that he could find. McCoy sat up, not bothering to stand and looked at Jim where he was crouched upon the floor.   
  
“Let me put it to you this way, kid. The Great Families may not have the ability to terrorise all the planets in the Empire, but they can still bring the goddamn Emperor to his knees. So Archer controls the ‘Fleet, what of it? The Great Families are what keep Earth stable. How do you think the Empire would react were the Emperor to lose his power base at home? The Vulcans, at the very least, would realise a war cannot be won if it’s fought on two fronts. They’d rebel. So would every other space-faring race within the Empire. Archer would have to choose: quell Earth and lose the Empire, or quell the Empire and lose Earth. Either way he’s lost the war. The Emperor  _needs_  us Jim. We keep the politicians and the Lesser Families happy. So Archer doesn’t throw as many credits our way; he lines our pockets with other things. We are the foundations of the Empire.”  
  
“If that’s true, why try to win favour with Pike? Don’t pretend like his patronage won’t advance your career. Time was when the Old Families didn’t need that kind of help. Your influence is waning.”  
  
McCoy swore, rocking up to his knees to move closer into Kirk’s space. “Haven’t you been  _listening_? Pike needs me not the other way around. You think he would have handed you over if it were Puri asking or M’Benga?  _Think_ , kid. Pike’s building himself a circle of security. Archer on one side, McCoy’s on the other. When Archer falls, Pike’s making sure he doesn’t go down with him.”  
  
Jim laughed, short and disbelieving. “You just don’t get it do you? Archer’s preparing to disembowel the four Great Families. Haven’t you noticed what’s happening? The Lesser Families – the ones you relied on to create your threat? They’re all but gone. The Wilsons, the Monroes, the Baxters, the Hortons? Over a third of the useful members of those families are dead. The McCoy power base is waning and you haven’t even  _noticed_. Meanwhile, the Darnells and the Treadways – families that  _personally_  insulted  _you_  are gaining in power. The same goes is happening to the Rivers, the Brentworths and the Nolands. How can you all be so oblivious?” Jim sat back on his heels, exasperated. He had thought McCoy smart – thought the entire family a force to be reckoned with, but McCoy at least had not the faintest clue.  
  
“You’re talking nonsense.” McCoy said stubbornly, pushing to his feet. “I’ve kept tabs on the Lesser Families you’ve mentioned – the men are fine. So are their women for that matter.”  
  
“Jesus.” Jim muttered, mirroring McCoy’s movements. “I’m not talking about the current generation, McCoy. I’m talking about the one to come. There are no useful children left in any of the key Lesser Families. Archer’s not stupid enough to attack the Great Families directly, so he’s whittling away your future powerbase. When the time comes, Archer’s going to execute all the current members of the Lesser Families and you will be left with  _nothing_. The four Great Families will be standing on their own with no one left to maintain their powerbase – there will be no children to continue the money, the names or the alliances. You’ll be stranded and then all Archer has to do is strip you of your power one by one. This is no short term plan, McCoy, Archer’s been planning this for eight years at least – long before he was Emperor.”  
  
McCoy was pale. Jim worried the man might vomit but he wasn’t that weak. Leaning against the wall, McCoy shook his head.  
  
“Why are you telling me this? Why now, why not sooner?”  
  
“Honestly?” Jim answered. “I thought you knew. But now – now I’m telling you because I have plans for you.”  
  
“Plans for me?” McCoy sneered; the defeat falling from him like leaves, returning him to the sadistic artist Jim had met years ago.  
  
“You owe me.” Jim reminded him.   
  
“I could have you killed.”  
  
“Pike would return the favour – and you pointed it out yourself: his position with Archer is secure. He needn’t fear you.”  
  
McCoy ran a hand over his face and through his hair. He’d been so wrapped up in his medicine; content to let his father handle the political machinations that came with the family name that he’d missed this completely. Now he was trapped – caught between Kirk and Pike and with nowhere left to turn.   
  
“So I’m yours.” McCoy said.  
  
“Yes.” Kirk agreed. “You’re mine.” He gestured at his feet and, with bile rising in his throat, McCoy sank slowly to his knees.   
  
Looking up at eyes cold and merciless as winter skies, McCoy realised that James T. Kirk was no longer a spoilt and sullen child. 


	3. Chapter 3

Kirk held the delicate replica of the Earth carefully in his palm. The passing starlight outside the window of his room aboard the  _Enterprise_  sparked lightly off its surface – illuminating oceans and continents with apathetic delicacy. Idly, Kirk sent the model spinning on its axis across his fingers. He caught it, just before it fell.   
  
The doors to his room swept open, and Kirk wrinkled his nose in distaste. The air was suddenly sweet with the metallic tang of bodies leaking blood, and clotted with the pungent, wafting odour of defecation. He listened to McCoy strip himself efficiently; clothes bundled away and boots tucked neatly into a corner. The shower started and stopped again. There was the rustle of a towel against skin and the soft pad of feet behind him.  
  
“They’re saying Pike’s dead.” McCoy’s voice was overly loud in the darkness.  
  
“I know.” Kirk closed his fist over the spinning replica of the Earth and felt it crack ever so slightly.  
  
“Is this a problem?” McCoy asked. Kirk felt his desk shift as the doctor settled his weight against it; hip pressing into the polished wooden edge.   
  
“No.” Kirk was aware that his answer sounded less than convincing. McCoy snarled.  
  
“Dammit Kirk, he was one of your closest allies. You’re seriously telling me, that his death doesn’t affect your position in the slightest? He was the only Admiral on your side.” Kirk bathed for a moment in McCoy’s frustration and resentment. The man was too politic to voice his complaints too much in the open, but Kirk could taste the bitterness in McCoy’s sweat every time he laved at the doctor’s skin. It was like licking at a sour sweet until, eventually, you broke past the hard and shiny shell to reach the hollow emptiness beneath.  
  
Silence stretched between them until McCoy sighed and tugged at the knot in his towel indifferently. The material sagged and slipped from his hips. Kirk simply tipped his head back when McCoy walked around in front of him and knelt between his legs. He felt fingers tug casually at his fly. The doctor had never pretended that Kirk drove him to previously unknown heights of ecstasy; Kirk would not have respected McCoy even half so much had he lied. McCoy’s disinterest was honest – even more so than his bitterness. It was tangent and known. It acted as a useful bench-mark.   
  
McCoy paused, fingers curled around Kirk’s knees. Kirk watched as McCoy pieced together the unspoken pieces of the puzzle: Kirk’s apathy, his lackadaisical attitude towards McCoy’s current activities. McCoy’s scowl was visible even in the starlight.  
  
“You cannot have been stupid enough to kill Pike.” McCoy said, voice lilting somewhere between question and statement. Kirk laughed, thick and fettered and tipped his head back against the seat. McCoy pushed to his feet, angry and disbelieving. “Good god, man. What were you thinking? Have you completely lost your mind?” Naked and arms folded across his chest, McCoy should have looked vulnerable. Instead he reminded Jim of one of the ancient gods; angry, nude, artistic – never naked.   
  
“I’m perfectly sane, Bones.” Jim said, rising from his seat and pushing past McCoy out of the living area. “All death serves a purpose. Even Pike’s.”   
  
Muttering to himself, McCoy rummaged around in a draw for something to wear; the laser scalpel from which he never seemed to be parted slipped easily into the waistband. Kirk could feel McCoy’s temper rising. The air seemed hot and thin; he could see the tension ripple down the doctor’s spin from shoulder to hip. McCoy had a right to be angry. Pike’s death potentially left Jim and his crew unprotected. Still, Kirk had hoped that after all these years McCoy would have learnt to be a little more long-sighted.   
  
Reclining on the bed, Jim let McCoy slam a few more drawers before beckoning the man to his side. McCoy came but he remained stiff and unyielding against Kirk’s caress.   
  
“Bones, you should really pay attention to more than half the gossip. It’s true, Pike’s dead. But have you listened beyond that? The Empire’s in uproar. Pike might not have terrified the ‘Fleet as much as someone like Barnett, but he was infinitely better connected. Entire networks have collapsed with his death. Intelligence operatives have nowhere to go; laden with information ready to be sold to the highest bidder. Pike was the hinge-pin of almost all of Archer’s designs. Where’s the Emperor now that Pike is dead?”  
  
McCoy growled, pushing himself up onto an elbow. “You’re an idiot. Pike wasn’t  _that_  important. Not to Archer; not to anyone – except maybe you. Tell me you didn’t do this, just to watch Archer fall. Tell me you did not throw away your greatest patron on a whim.”  
  
Jim smiled, lazy and smug. “I have a plan, Bones. You’ll see.” He rolled over, forcing McCoy back down onto the mattress. Wriggling slightly, he wormed his way down the doctor’s body until his chin could rest comfortably against the other man’s hip. “Now I’m going to entertain myself down here for a while. Try and find your happy place.”   
  
McCoy knew better than to cuff the Captain round the side of the head, but it was a near thing. The kid was an idiot; still so ignorant as to how the game needed to be played. Damn fool had sentenced them all to death.   
  
As Kirk’s tongue flicked wet and hot against his crotch, McCoy’s nails bit bloody crescents into his skin.  
  


* * *

  
  
“Mr Chekov, raise forward shields and have weapons ready to fire. Mr Sulu, take us in gently – set impulse engines to allow for maximum manoeuvrability.”  
  
“Aye, Captain.”   
  
The ISS  _Herla_  sat fat and repugnant across the view screen – squatting like a toad in the vast reaches of space. Kirk knew that Barnett was already ordering his men to open fire. Kirk raised a finger and Uhura opened a channel to the other ship.  
  
“Admiral. The  _Enterprise_  is here as ordered. Perhaps you wouldn’t mind telling me why you called my ship half way across the quadrant?”  
  
Barnett’s face swam into view. “Captain Kirk. The Emperor sent me to escort you and your ship to Earth. He did not want you to forgo the opportunity to pay your respects to the late Admiral Pike, simply for fear of your own safety.”   
  
“That was very  _considerate_  of the Emperor.”   
  
Barnett smiled; eyes dead and hollow in his face.   
  
“We all know how much Pike meant to you, Kirk. It was thought best, to give you the chance to say goodbye to such a –  _beloved_  – mentor.” Barnett’s voice oozed like oil over the system – the hint at weakness; at Kirk’s potential role as the submissive, dripped into the ear.   
  
The bridge crew shifted incrementally. At the helm, Sulu’s right shoulder spasmed – still raw from where Kirk had driven a stiletto into the muscle two days before. Beside Sulu, Chekov clocked the movement but his face stayed empty. The pilot had been foolish enough to believe Kirk weakened by Pike’s demise; Chekov had more sense. Perhaps McCoy had warned him. The two shared a penchant for lethal cuts and sharp knives, after all.   
  
“Anything to please the Emperor.” Kirk said and cut the communication before Barnett could object. “Fire disrupters.” Chekov did as he was told. As Barnett’s ship began to short-circuit, Kirk idly considered giving Scotty a reward of some kind. Electro-magnetic weaponry truly was  _vastly_  superior.   
  
“Mr Sulu, take us out of here. Warp two.”  
  
“Aye Captain.”   
  
The  _Herla_  sat dead in the water. Her life support systems would begin to collapse soon enough. Kirk wondered who Barnett would choose to save; wondered if he would be alive to make the choice in the first place.  
  


* * *

  
  
Jim could feel his crew shift wordlessly around him. They could sense the change rolling through the Empire. Pike was dead – their main protector. Archer was clinging to the fleet – reigning in the Admirals and the Captains. The  _Enterprise_  was rogue and the  _Herla_  was destroyed. The intelligence networks had already found buyers and been given new homes. Jim had made certain that the good ones went to the McCoys. Oh the other Families got more – the Rivers got the most (it was safer that way) – but eventually those networks would begin to crumble. Jim had scoured the networks for the strongest deepest tunnels and given them to the new Patriarch of the McCoy clan.   
  
Now it was just a question of keeping the ship. Sulu was easily made an example of and Chekov fell into line once McCoy gave him free reign over the injured crew in Sickbay. Kirk hadn’t even needed to give that order – nice to know McCoy was a perceptive son of bitch when he wanted to be.   
  
Spock passed him with a nod and a salute. It was Spock, Jim worried about most. Uhura wanted power – and she would take the chance to raise her position in the Empire through Kirk’s defiance of Archer. But Spock – Spock loved rules, even more than power or control. He wanted to bring the ship to Earth as per Barnett’s orders. Kirk was waiting for rebellion.   
  


* * *

  
  
McCoy watched as Chekov spun a stiletto idly between his fingers. The Orion slave-trader Jim had been keeping in the brig hung in the centre of the room. Chekov gave the Orion a casual push, preening under McCoy stare as the slaver whimpered and writhed. Turning to the array of medical instruments he had brought with him, McCoy selected a small bone drill and motioned for Chekov to hold the Orion still. The navigator complied, whispering vile-nothings into the slave-trader’s ear.  
  
Aligning the drill just below the clavicle, McCoy powered up the instrument. There was a certain nostalgia in using such antiquated technology; something _visceral_. Chekov stroked himself lazily through his trousers as the Orion began to scream.  
  
“He has some very nice silks in his cargo.” Chekov said, picking up the thread of a conversation that had previously been dropped. The boy raised an eyebrow in question and McCoy nodded, shifting so Chekov could begin to work. “Perhaps you will find something to give your cousin for her wedding.”  
  
McCoy hummed, distracted. The bone drill obviously was not painful enough – their subject had fallen silent. Perhaps a bone marrow extraction?   
  
“You are not happy about the marriage, Doctor?” Chekov asked. The Orion shrieked as the navigator began to skin him. McCoy loved watching the boy work; he had the soul of an artist.   
  
“It’s a marriage.” McCoy answered. “It could be worse.”  
  
“A good match.” Chekov agreed. “Rivers and McCoys are both bloodthirsty, yes?”  
  
“He’s a younger son.”  
  
Chekov paused, moving back to allow McCoy to slice away his anger on the Orion’s skin. “The elder son is married.” Chekov said. McCoy’s hand convulsed; one of the slave-trader’s fingers snapped accordingly.   
  
Licking his lips, Chekov darted his gaze between McCoy’s face and the grip he had on the Orion’s appendages. Carefully, he sheathed his knives and offered McCoy a salute. “I will leave you to your enjoyment, Doctor. Maybe we can experiment together another time, yes?”  
  
McCoy nodded curtly. Chekov left and McCoy dug his fingers into the slivers of skin the navigator had left behind. Flesh quivered and twitched within his grip – never endings raw and exposed.   
  
“It should not have mattered.” McCoy growled at the Orion; his nails dragged through sagging, green, skin; thickening with blood and tissue. “She should have married an elder son. A pre-existing marriage should have been no concern; the woman was no one.” He panted, breath whistling viciously from his nostrils. “My cousin should not be due to wed a younger son.” He yanked. The Orion cried, tears pouring wet and pearl-green down his face. “She is a McCoy.” McCoy hissed. “She is a  _McCoy_. And I will see Jim Kirk dead for what he has reduced my family to.”   
  
A flash of the knife, and the Orion’s blood splattered in an arc against the wall.  
  


* * *

  
  
Kirk splayed his hand against the glass of the Observation Deck. The stars pin-wheeled through the empty dark – flaring against his retina as the _Enterprise_  drifted lazily through space. The remnents of the  _Atilla_  and the _Haig_  spun listlessly on the horizon. Nearer, close enough that Kirk could read the writing on her hull floated the  _Medici_. Her crew was dead or locked in stasis in her cargo hold but Scotty had balked at the idea of firing upon such a fine vessel and Kirk had agreed. The Empire would need some remnants of her fleet, after all.   
  
He felt, rather than heard, Uhura approach behind him. However she had positioned herself, there was no reflection in the glass – only the endless void and a trail of devastation left behind. Kirk turned before Uhura had a chance to level her blade against his throat.   
  
She paused – sensible enough not to attack when Kirk was watching. This was not the rebellion he had been waiting for – he had anticipated Spock tonight, not Uhura – but it would be his means of quelling revolution before it started. Gesturing at the seats that lay by the largest bay of the window, Kirk ushered Uhura away from him. She sat, regal as a queen, eyes shining beneath her lashes, waiting for the proposition Kirk would offer.  
  
Jim let her stew for a time. He was not here to pander to the ambitions of his crew. Eventually, he handed over a PADD. Uhura accepted it in silence, keen eyes scanning the contents before laying it carefully in her lap.  
  
“And in exchange.”  
  
“Do nothing to undermine my plans to keep Spock on my side.”  
  
Uhura blinked – once. It was a habit she had not yet cured herself of entirely. Kirk could see the debate spilling behind her eyes. Could she, without Kirk’s aid, achieve what he was offering? Possibly – but it would be many years in the making. Spock would never be a Captain – she had no hope of holding an advancement if he overthrew Kirk. But if Kirk failed and she was complicit in his plans. Kirk knew when she decided to accept his favour. Better the devil you know and all he was offering, than to play the role of Tantalus for all eternity.   
  
Jim reclaimed the PADD, dismissing Uhura with a nod and an understanding that were she to interfere, the captain would give no quarter.   
  
Spock was settled then. The logic Jim could place before his First Officer was sound. And without Uhura whispering dissent in his Vulcan ear, Jim’s victory was assured. Better to be master than to be slave – even Spock would acknowledge  _that_  as a universal constant. The threat of immediate weakness in the Empire from Kirk’s aggression could be countered by presenting it simply as a culling of the herd. It would be illogical to leave any potential threat unanswered – better to have a smaller force and a loyal one, than a large and dangerously divided army.   
  
Turning the PADD over and over in his hands, Jim let his mind drift.   
  
The galaxy bloomed before his eyes. Earth stood blue-green and proud before the fiery mass of the Sun. Orbiting a distant star, Vulcan spun – the other end of an arc of power. The Fleet soared on silver wings across the Cosmos – the  _Enterprise_  at the head – and all the Alpha Quadrant trembled in her wake.   
  


* * *

  
The  _Enterprise_  docked behind the moon of Aurella IX. The planet was mainly deserted. A few minor colonies still clung to the far side of the satellite but most had fled when the mines dried up. It was from here that Kirk readied his assault.   
  
The  _Enterprise_  alone did not have the strength to beat the other ships into submission and Spock had cautioned against trusting any of the other Captains. The one Admiral they could have trusted was dead and Jim had too few allies on Earth to be assured of a successful coup. Besides, he had no dreams of being Caesar – his sight was set on greater heights. Jim’s victory was a slow game of attrition. The  _Enterprise_  stalked the stars, eradicating threats and winning vassal states whenever the opportunity arose.   
  
McCoy chaffed at the bit and plotted. Kirk pressed him to the mattress most nights, but more and more it was with Kirk riding him – twisting his hips to ensure McCoy’s release before his own. As though this were a gift sweet enough to make McCoy feel grateful for his leash.   
  
He was forced to watch, as on Earth wars for dominance rippled across the Great Families. The Rivers’ influence was quickly waning – crumbling as too many of their number died and with too few to replace them. Archer was scrambling to retain his power. His attempts to curry favour with Fitzwilliam St. John – head of the Fourth Family – had been met with bloody fury from the Brentworth’s. Their Matriarch had hung Fitzwilliam’s head upon her wall. Still, such power would not last for long. Fitzwilliam’s wife was no shrinking violet. Such violence would mean war. McCoy could only hope his Uncle was not foolish enough to choose sides.   
  
He could see what Kirk was doing – tucked away amidst the shadows of the moon. He had taken Archer’s game and reversed it. The Lesser Families were still weak – still vastly reduced in number – but at least Archer’s power base had been whittled in return. Pike was gone – the intell. he brought with him lost to the highest bidder. Three of the four Great Families had lost key sons and daughters – the brightest minds and the highest bargaining chips for marriage. It grated on McCoy that he owed a debt to Kirk for ensuring that the McCoy’s remained unscathed.   
  
But at what price? The Empire was trembling at the base. Too much of her home power had been lost to fruitless death. McCoy could not help but think that were he home in Georgia, the necessary machinations to ensure a strong political base would have been easy to achieve. Kirk was too reckless, had left their future spinning on the head of a pin. If this failed – if Vulcan tried for independence; if some ambitious fool made a bid for Emperor – then all was lost. They would be hunted men and McCoy would have lost everything: all power, all prestige, all the terror that was attached to his name.   
  
Still, he had some small independence. Kirk had left him to coordinate with his Uncle as he saw fit – handpicking the alliances he deemed worthy. It was enough, for now, to stay his hand. Kirk would live – until such time as he went too far in trying to control the McCoy’s. McCoy would not live the remainder of his life a Captain’s slave.  
  


* * *

  
McCoy scowled at the message that lay in his quarters. Brief thanks, a cursory acceptance from his cousin and her new husband – the wedding gift was appreciated, she would have the silks taken to a seamstress, both families send their regards to him and his captain. There should have been a gift in return, dammit, and the message had come four months too late. _Damn_ , Kirk.  
  
Digging in his desk, McCoy withdrew a PADD he looked at too much these days: the deeds for the McCoy family home – signed and notarised – and handed over to his uncle for ‘safe keeping’. Not much McCoy could do to maintain the place all the way out in space. With no immediate family left, the estate had gone to his father’s younger brother. The grand elegance of his home was gone from his name. By all the laws of the Empire, Kirk should have released McCoy from service the day his father was killed; sent him back to Georgia to secure the family legacy and ensure the McCoy’s had their standing. Instead, the kid had played by his own damn rules: disposing of those responsible and taping McCoy’s name to the kills; signing McCoy’s property over to a lesser family branch and keeping McCoy here, aboard the _Enterprise_.   
  
Damned if McCoy knew how Kirk had done it – wrapped it up all pretty so that no one called McCoy a failure or a coward; made it seem as though his staying aboard the ship was a favour to the Emperor, of all things; made it so that Archer never contradicted that assumption – not even in private. Eventually there would be a price to pay.   
  
The comm. at his door chimed. A gruff command and Ensign Reynolds entered. McCoy knew her family – though only vaguely. Her uncle held a small mining contract on some distant moon. The hunk of rock wasn’t rich enough if dilithium or latinum to make the man a major player in galactic games. But it held treasures such as gold and platinum and he supplied many of the jewellers who catered to pampered mistresses and wives of Imperial favourites. McCoy motioned the woman further into the room, noting the way she moved as though her back was sore.   
  
Oddly enough, Reynolds was one of Kirk’s favourites. He paid the Ensign more attention than most – especially considering she had very little in the way of looks or money to her name. Still, Kirk seemed to take delight in enquiring after her family – their latest alliances and woes.   
  
Reaching his desk, the woman knelt by McCoy’s feet. The doctor waited – wanting to see if whoever had sent the Ensign here had given her any particular instruction before he ordered her to unzip him. Reynolds stared at him, blinking owlishly. When McCoy did not say anything, she swept her hair to the side and set about removing her uniform. McCoy’s hand itched with the urge to reach for his laser scalpel; he never could resist a blank canvas. Reynolds swivelled on her knees, allowing McCoy to appreciate the rasp of fibre against skin as her legs scraped against the floor. The doctor very nearly reached for his scalpel anyway. The sight of Reynolds’ back stopped him.  
  
The wound was fresh – cauterised. Etched deep with a knife and then sealed, rather crudely. McCoy ran his fingers over the markings – delivering Reynolds a sharp blow when she flinched away. The McCoy family crest stood raw and angry against her skin. Fury sparked and coiled in McCoy’s gut; the muscle in his jaw twitched almost imperceptibly.   
  
“Did you do this yourself? Or have someone do it for you?”  
  
Reynold’s trembled; no doubt cold, sitting half-naked in McCoy’s quarters. “No, Sir.”   
  
McCoy sat back, running a hand distractedly against his jaw. It was not Chekov’s work, nor Sulu’s either. Both those men were used to handling knives – wielded them with precision and artistry. This work was rough – delivered by someone more accustomed to sweeping blows than delicate incisions. Besides, neither of them was stupid enough to tie this chit and her family to the McCoy’s without his permission. Not even Kirk would have been that arrogant.  
  
“Who did this?” McCoy asked. He felt Reynolds swallow from where his hand lay against her throat.   
  
“The Captain, Sir.” McCoy’s hand bit involuntarily into Reynolds neck before letting go. Kirk had gone too far.  
  
“Get dressed and get out.”  
  
Reynolds scrambled to obey. The door slid shut not a minute later.   
  
Pressing his hand to the comm. McCoy called the Captain.  
  
“Captain, when you’ve got a moment could you come to my quarters? I believe there is a debt that needs to be settled regarding the token you just sent me.”  
  


* * *

  
  
Jim savoured the liquor as it slid down his throat. It wasn’t often McCoy initiated their encounters. Bones had downed his drink in one go. The alcohol was fiery, strong – McCoy must have taken Scotty up on his offer of testing the merchandise.   
  
Jim let his eyes slip almost closed as McCoy moved idly around the room. The man was good – anyone else would never have realised what he was doing. Jim was better. He waited until Bones had arranged himself in position behind Jim’s chair; waited until the CMO had the hypo halfway to his neck before he spun and caught McCoy’s wrist.   
  
“Nice try, Bones.” He pressed until cartilage and bone popped and cracked. McCoy winced and dropped the hypo. He didn’t make a sound though. Good for him. Jim smiled. “Get on the bed.”  
  
It was fun – watching the doctor stomp over to the mattress, strip and lie down face up. He did it all with such poor grace. Jim sat and savoured the moment. The drink McCoy had given him was still warm in his belly, but he was beginning to feel heat in other regions now. Too many other regions.  
  
With a snarl, Jim pushed to his feet. The room swam in streams of colour and light. He would gut McCoy for this. He reached for his knife and missed. The door was too far away. So was McCoy. And Jim had been the one to put him there.   
  
On the bed, McCoy propped himself up on his elbows and smiled. Jim’s head hit the foot of the chair with a crack. He stayed down.  
  


* * *

  
  
Jim woke to a world blurred by pain and the remnants of whatever drug McCoy had used. His hands were tied, but the left might just give at a push – he wouldn’t want to try it though. Bones was sat beside the bed, idly running his fingers over an antique needle. His face was perfectly calm and he was smiling.  
  
Kirk felt his mind fade into white static. Tactics flooded his mind – eyes already judging distance, strength and speed. It would take McCoy maybe four seconds to react, move and completely subdue him. Less if McCoy was better than Kirk knew or was lucky. Rage blazed in the tight lines around McCoy’s eyes and the white touches to his knuckles as he played with his toy – but still he was smiling. Only those deranged with fury could keep smiling when they were angry. Still, anger clouded judgement – if he could keep McCoy angry he could slip behind his defences.  
  
“If you wanted to tie me up, Bones, all you had to do was ask – I might even have agreed.”  
  
McCoy bared his teeth, leant forward to trace the point of the needle against Jim’s skin. “This isn’t about sex, Kirk. This about,” he paused, “positive reinforcement.”  
  
“Meaning?”  
  
“Meaning, Kirk, that you do not presume to brand people in my name.” McCoy backhanded Kirk across the face, drawing blood from where the ring he wore caught against the captain’s cheek. “The Kirk’s are no-one. They are not a Great Family, not even a Lesser one – you caught the attention of the last Emperor and it saved you. But where is your mother, where are your relations? I do not see any such favours bestowed upon them. You need to learn your place,  _Captain_. Possession of the Flagship does not mean much outside your blinkered mind.”  
  
Kirk’s jaw twitched against the urge to spit in McCoy’s face. He had grown up an Imperial favourite – he had lived at court and see how the games were played – and McCoy still thought he needed to be educated.  _Fool_. He opened his mouth to speak, but McCoy was not done with his tirade. On and on he raged, standing by the bed and railing about the arrogance of Kirk’s assumption. Spittle flew from his lips to land wetly upon Kirk’s neck and cheek. There was so much fury – a near apoplectic rage that had stewed and festered in the reaches of McCoy’s mind all these years. At last McCoy subsided, panting heavily as he leaned over Jim.  
  
“You are nothing more, than the Captain of the Enterprise.” He heaved.  
  
Kirk’s lip curled and he chewed his lip to keep from trying to tear at McCoy with his teeth. Tied as he was , there was no way he could reach. “Being Captain of the  _Enterprise_  means more than you think, Bones. It is my threat and reputation that has bought the safety of your family members. It’s my position that has brought the McCoy’s to greatness. Me. I made your family McCoy and I can quite as easily destroy them.”   
  
McCoy roared and lunged for him, but Kirk was ready. With a dreadful yank, he pulled at his left hand, feeling the wrist dislocate as it slipped from the cuff. His elbow was enough to hit McCoy’s nose – distracting the other man long enough for Kirk to free his wrist and tear his leg bindings from the bed. McCoy slashed at him, blade pulled from god knows where and Kirk rolled, tumbling from the bed and backing up against the wall.  
  
He was a better fighter than McCoy, if he could get close enough, he could end this. McCoy seemed to remember it the same time Kirk did. He paused, shifting his weight into a more defensive stance – still openly brandishing the weapon but doing what he could to appear less of an open threat. Too late.   
  
Kirk stalked forward, and McCoy gave way. The distance closed between them until McCoy had his legs backed against the low table he kept by the window and Kirk blocked his escape.  
  
“Did you expect me to be grateful?” McCoy asked, and he was resigned now – realising that he had played his hand too soon and lost all hope of victory.  
  
Jim felt his lips quirk in a smile, but it was small and bitter. That would teach him to feast on dreams. “I did. I’d hoped you would be. I did this for you Bones, I built you an Empire.”  
  
“And left me lying at the bottom of the heap.”  
  
“The McCoys are the First family now in all but name – soon even in that. Don’t you see, Bones? Your family will rule the galaxy. The next Emperor will be a McCoy.”  
  
McCoy gave a half-scream of desperate rage. “And I’m stuck here. Aboard this ship. I should be down there – it’s  _my_  family, dammit. Not my goddamn Uncle’s – my father’s  _younger_  brother. This is the first time in over two hundred years the McCoys aren’t being led by an eldest son.”  
  
“You never would have made a politician Bones.” Kirk’s voice made an aim for jovial – he was smiling; trying to convince McCoy that this was all for him – that he should be grateful. But the smile was sat poorly around the edges; the eyes were becoming slowly cold. McCoy was too incensed to care. Let Kirk kill him. Anything was better than this.  
  
“You don’t know what I could have done or would have been. You took that from me. My joining the ‘Fleet was never about a career – it was about making connections. And  _instead_  you tied me to this ship, bound me to your bed and made me the laughing stock of every Family in the Empire: the eldest son of an eldest son; the heir to a legacy. And you made me nothing more than your whipping boy.”  
  
Kirk’s face was ugly now – warped with rage. The fist to the face was expected. McCoy went down and kicked his foot at Kirk’s groin. Kirk broke his ankle before the blow made contact.   
  
“Don’t be grateful then.” Kirk crouched, rubbing McCoy’s broken bones between his fingers, listening to the grate of bone and skin and cartilage. “But you’re not getting off this ship, Bones – not until one of us is dead.” Kirk let McCoy’s foot drop with a thud. He knelt and braced a leg either side of the doctor’s head.   
  
It was suicide, McCoy knew, but he still tried to slam the hypo into Kirk’s thigh. Kirk caught his wrist.   
  
“Give it up, Bones. I win.”   
  
There was something, in Kirk’s face. He hadn’t loved McCoy. It wasn’t that. But he had  _trusted_  him; believed they beneath the thin veneer of McCoy’s disinterest and resentment they shared an ideology. It must be eating him alive to know that he was wrong.   
  
McCoy suppressed a smile. He knew Kirk’s weakness, now. And it was something he could use.  
  


* * *

  
  
Archer was murdered in the spring. The Bretworth’s made a wild grab for power but Jim had people waiting. McCoy watched the broadcast. He watched, as his cousin ascended to the throne of the Empire. McCoy’s Uncle stood beside him, scarred and victorious. Kirk brought the  _Enterprise_  back to Earth a week later.  
  


* * *

  
  
McCoy was welcomed by the family like a king. Though, McCoy felt, the greeting would not have been quite so warm were Kirk not shadowing his every step. His uncle and cousin held no illusions as to who had engineered their power. A new age was dawning and Kirk held the strings like a puppet master.   
  
Uhura had disappeared one night from the  _Enterprise_  and neither Kirk nor Spock had chased her. Chekov and Sulu both stayed close but it was clear they had begun to reap the benefits of marked Imperial favour. Kirk had set himself up as Supreme Commander of the Fleet and he knew better than to slight two ambitious officers who knew so much about him.   
  
McCoy made no attempt to break free. He played his role and slowly – so very, very slowly – came to lay himself before Kirk’s feet. Kirk had given him back his family home in exchange.  
  


* * *

  
  
“Six years, Bones.” Jim said. “Six years and I still hold the Empire.” He fell with cat-like grace onto the seat beside McCoy, setting the swing rocking back and forth until it his the wall.   
  
“ _Care_ ful.”   
  
It was an old complain. Jim flapped a hand and ignored McCoy. The man treated this house as though it were the most fragile treasure – took every scratch and chip and mark as a personal assault. Kirk could not deny a certain empathy with the sentiment. The grandeur of McCoy’s home was unrivalled. Even the palace – with its stolen treasures and exquisite architecture – lacked something of the majesty, captured here in the South.   
  
Laying his head in McCoy’s lap, Kirk let the other man tip Bourbon between his lips. it had taken a long time before he had willingly accepted a drink from McCoy but now that trust was earned. This is what he had fought for – the ability to trust just one person; the knowledge that he knew McCoy so completely, so unerringly that he would never need to doubt. Jim had  _won_  he had conquered the complexity of the human mind – and now he  _knew_  McCoy. It was a heady, almost drunken power. Not even gods could claim such control.   
  
McCoy was running fingers through his hair, tracing nails across his neck in an erratic dance.   
  
“I see more of you in Chekov every day.” McCoy commented, tipping more alcohol between Jim’s lips. “You’ve trained him well, I must say.”  
  
Kirk hummed in agreement. “He idolises you, though. He’d follow me to hell and back but only because he knows I’d take you too.”  
  
“He’s a good officer.”  
  
“Yes.”  
  
“He’ll make a good Captain of the  _Enterprise_.”  
  
“Wha –” Jim’s eyes jerked open in surprise or at least they tried to. His mouth was sluggish, pulling at the words he tried to form. McCoy’s eyes were bright above him, until they were obscured by the vision of the silver hypo McCoy raised in front of Kirk’s face.   
  
“They don’t have to hurt.”  
  
Jim fought to say something, to move – but his body was unresponsive. He could feel nothing below his neck, just the barest sensation in his throat and jaw. McCoy stroked a hand along his brow.   
  
“You did so well. You set it all up so that one man – if he has the power – can control the entire Empire. All he needs is my support – I connect him to the First Family; to the wealth of the Reynolds mines. Chekov has my blessing. He’ll never seek to control me – unlike you.  
  
“He’s releasing me to Earth. So we’ll see about restoring power to the right branch of the Family. Not right away of course – I’ll have to marry, produce an heir. I want the succession assured. But there is time. I have to admit it  _is_ sturdy – this Empire of yours. Even if it’s not how I would of designed it.”  
  
Kirk stared at him. Mouth refusing to form any of the words he wanted to hurl at McCoy. His dream was going to turn to dust and Bones could not see it. But then McCoy lowered his head again, and Jim saw a weight of knowledge in his eyes. He knew exactly what he was doing. McCoy would let the Empire sink slowly to his knees and make Kirk watch – just to spite him.   
  
The white of McCoy’s smile flashed in the gathering twilight. “You were a favourite of the Empire, Jim.” McCoy told him. “You should have known better than to trust me.”

 

**End.**


End file.
